There is a Season
by spiderfire
Summary: At first, they just thought that Javert had a cold, but as the months go by, it is clear that it is something quite different. The disease eats him from within and he asks Valjean for help. This is a sequel to "A way to go on" and was written as a part of the summer valvert exchange.


The large east facing windows stood open and a bit of a breeze stirred the sheer curtains. Warm yellow light filtered through the light fabric. It was a late September day and it had rained last night, breaking the week-long hot spell that had gripped the city. The cool air was a relief.

Valjean sat in his armchair and put a slice of apple into his mouth, hardly tasting it as he chewed mechanically. He stared blankly at the worn, empty chair across from him. The chair was positioned with its back to the window, giving it good morning light to read by.

This sitting room had been their sanctuary for so many years. Once, Cosette had sat in the chair across from him. She had read poetry in a soft voice or they had talked of her thoughts of organizing a hospital or a school for the children of the street. She was gone now, living with her husband and her little boy, expecting another soon. Yesterday when she had stopped by to check on them, her happiness had been a ray of sunshine that had distracted them and had left him cheered for an hour.

For the last five years, it had been … it had been …

With a broken sigh, he set the plate aside with most of the apple still on it. Everything about this room held traces of Javert. That chair was his chair. Javert read papers, not poetry. Every morning, he would sit there, ankles crossed, muttering at the news. A stack of his papers, weeks old now, were still under the chair. Valjean shared few of Javert's opinions on the news, and political conversations were rarely fruitful, but that hardly mattered.

The decanter of whisky they had shared each evening sat on its table by the fireplace. The decanter was empty and Valjean had not bothered to fill it. There was no solace in drinking alone. Just looking at the fireplace made him think of a cold evening last winter when it seemed Javert was on the mend. They had pulled their chairs over so they could sit with their feet resting on the hearth. Javert had told him the story of a drunkard he had once tried to arrest, speaking in a quiet deadpan voice. By the end, Valjean had been laughing so hard that tears had streamed down his face. Then the tears had become something else and Javert had come over and perched on the arm of his chair and had held him against his chest while he had cried himself out.

Even his desk was shared with Javert. It was their ritual now, when haunted by the demons of their lives, to write them down and burn the paper, watching as flames consumed the horrors of the past. Looking at their desk, he remembered the last time Javert had sat there. It had been the middle of the night and Valjean had woken when he had rolled over into an empty spot in their bed. He had found him sitting at the desk, writing slowly, his hand trembling each time he lifted the pen to dip it in the inkwell. Silently, Valjean had stood vigil, waiting until Javert had put whatever dream that had haunted him to the flames. It had been hard to stand there and watch as Javert wrote. He had seen from the way Javert stiffly held his arm, from the increasingly long pauses he took when he re-inked the pen, that he was in pain. But Valjean had waited silently until Javert was done before walking over to him. He pushed Javert's long hair back from his eyes and drew him into an embrace. "Let's go back to bed," he had said softly. Javert stood and Valjean had wrapped his arm around Javert's waist to support him as they walked back toward the bedroom.

Stop it, he ordered himself, forcing himself to get up. He took a long look out of the window, towards the sun. With a heavy heart, he turned and made his way toward the bedroom that he had shared with Javert until recently. Two weeks ago Javert had become too sick to share a bed and now Valjean slept in Cosette's room sometimes, or he dozed in the chair next to Javert.

He walked into the room, moving quietly, not wanting to disturb Javert's sleep. It was hard to look at the body that inhabited the bed. Javert had once been so powerful, so commanding. Now there was nothing left. Whatever this sickness was, it had eaten him from within. His eyes and cheeks were sunk deep in his skull, his hands were frail and boney, his long grey hair hung in limp clumps around his face. He barely ate and when he did, what he passed was mixed with blood. He slept in restless, feverish bursts before the pain woke him.

When this had started some months ago, Javert had come down with the flux. He had blown his nose and that had started a nosebleed that took the better part of an hour to stop. Javert had gotten better and the nosebleeds had diminished. Then he had started complaining of the pain in his hips and legs. Now, the pain was constant.

Javert opened his eyes and smiled weakly when his eyes settled on Valjean. "How are you feeling?" Valjean asked.

Javert shrugged and lifted his arm by way of answer and Valjean took the cool, boney hand in his own. Carefully, Valjean sat on the edge of the bed next to Javert.

Valjean picked up a cloth that he had left on the beside table earlier in the morning and dipped it in a bowl of water. He gently washed Javert's face, trying to loosen the dried blood that had leaked from his nose while he slept. He moved slowly, barely pressing down. Javert's skin bruised with even a light touch.

Javert closed his eyes under Valjean's ministrations. When Valjean was done, Javert looked at him. It was several minutes before he spoke, his eyes strained. "Jean?" he said softly. "I am ready."

Valjean met his eyes. It would be easy to pretend he did not understand, to ask him to explain. Javert probably did not have the strength. But he knew. Truth be told, he was expecting it. He had been expecting it for a while.

He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind Javert's ear, letting his fingers linger in the soft waves. He slid his fingers through the overgrown sideburns and cupped what was left of Javert's cheek, feeling the shape of his skull through the skin. His eyes did not leave Javert's. He took in the lines of strain, the quiet plea.

A month ago, Javert had broached the topic and he had been horrified. He had refused to talk about it. A lot of things had changed in the last month and one of them was the certainty that they had both come to, that Javert was not going to get better. Valjean had no way of knowing how much time Javert had left, but he knew it would be spent in constant pain.

Javert lifted his hand from where it rested on the bed and Valjean took it again, lifting it to his lips. "You are sure?" he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Javert's nod was slight, but it was enough. Valjean closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a kiss to Javert's hand, and bowed his head in prayer. He had prayed on this often and he wished he felt more certain that this was the right path.

He released Javert's hand, settling it back on the bed and stood. "I'll be right back," he murmured.

When he returned, Javert's eyes were closed. Valjean hoped that maybe he had fallen asleep, that there was a reason to postpone this, but Javert's eyes fluttered open and he lifted his hand off the bed, reaching for him. From the way it was shaking, Valjean knew there was no way he was strong enough to hold the cup for himself. He set the cup down on the night table and caught Javert's hand in his own as he sat beside him.

Wrapping his arm around Javert's boney shoulders, Valjean pulled him into a sitting position. Javert was unresisting as Valjean moved him and it almost made Valjean cry. All he could think about was the strength that Javert once commanded. On the street. As a guard. In this bed, making love like his life depended on it, which in some ways it had.

He slid his leg around Javert and leaned back against the headboard, settling Javert against his chest. With a soft sigh of contentment, Javert relaxed into the embrace. Valjean tried not to dwell on how fragile and light Javert felt against him.

Valjean held the cup in front of Javert and Javert reached for it. "It will be strong enough?" he asked softly.

He nodded, rubbing his cheek against Javert's. He was afraid to speak, afraid that he would break down in tears. Not now. Later there would be plenty of time for tears.

Javert tried to take the cup from Valjean's hand, but he could not. His fingers would not close on it so Valjean brought it to his lips. At first, Javert sputtered at the taste. Valjean had tried to sweeten the laudanum with honey but he feared that the mixture was both overwhelmingly bitter and sickeningly sweet at the same time.

Once Javert started drinking, he finished it all and settled back against Valjean's body. The drug began to take effect and he felt Javert relax as the pain, his constant companion, diminished. Javert took Valjean's hand and entwined their fingers together. "Thank you," he said.

"I love you," Valjean replied, his voice breaking, the syllables coming out in a choked sob.

He felt Javert's hand press on his leg. "I love you, Jean." He replied. "Always."

There was so much more to say about the years they shared since the barricade, since the bridge. About the years before. The years to come. But as he sat there with Javert's slight weight against him, he knew the important things had been said. He wrapped his arms gently around Javert as his friend, his lover of these last five years, drifted peacefully off to sleep in his arms. He tried not to notice how wasted Javert's body had become. He tried to remember the man who, despite all the barriers there were in their lives, had discovered love with him. He rested his cheek against Javert's head and felt his breathing, unhindered and pain free, become slow and shallow.

Valjean did not fight his tears now. They ran down his face, dampening Javert's hair. His arms tightened and he realized he could no longer feel him breathing. He put his hand inside Javert's night shirt, hoping to feel his heartbeat, but after several minutes of searching, he realized it was gone.

An hour after Javert stopped breathing, Valjean ran out of tears. He extracted himself from behind Javert and laid the body out. It was good to see the pain gone from Javert's face. The face was gaunt, pale, but at peace. "Rest, my love," he whispered.


End file.
